


Live by bread alone

by most_curiously_blue_eyes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Falling In Love, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 17:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20697335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/most_curiously_blue_eyes/pseuds/most_curiously_blue_eyes
Summary: Like a starving man on an endless road, Rick daydreams about fresh bread. Then, he thinks about Daryl, and he wonders how it makes sense.Set in the time-gap between seasons two and three.





	Live by bread alone

**Author's Note:**

> There's a saying in Poland, loosely translated as "bread's on the mind of the hungry man"; it's often used as a response to someone's Freudian slip.   
Or, in other words, I needed to write something short and concise because I'm currently stuck in a limbo of multi-chaptered stories which get longer and longer as I go. This is this something.

After the end of the world, many things which used to be taken for granted in the life Before have become luxury goods, if they’re even obtainable at all. Everyone had to get used to what basically became facts of life after the apocalypse. They’re all wearing clothes which don’t fit right, don’t even match, but are sort-of alright to protect them from the harsh weather that’s getting cooler as fall draws nearer. There’s not a single person in the group who doesn’t smell like blood, sweat and rot, because hygiene standards aren’t what they used to be these days; as long as they’re mostly clean and not covered in shit - literally or metaphorically - it’s all considered acceptable, and nobody’s very bothered anymore. They’re still better-smelling than the walkers anyhow. Running water is not even a thing people bring up anymore, not since they left the farm. Water itself is scarce nowadays, so whenever the group happens upon a clean water source where they can refill their bottles and drink to their hearts’ content, it’s already reason enough for celebration. 

And food… well. Food is no longer something anybody wants for the sake of taste, that’s for sure.

“Don’t like it, don’t eat,” Daryl grumbles every time someone complains about the squirrel meat that’s the basis of their diet these days, scorched on the outside and bloody inside. “Plenty of us goin’ hungry, willin’ to take yer share.”

And they are, indeed. They go hungry more often than not as they’re wandering about aimlessly since the farm fell. Daryl tries to provide for them, but as the weather wanes and the mornings become crisp, small game becomes scarcer. The hunter explained to Rick one night that without a semi-permanent place to stay, he can’t really go for bigger game like deer because he’s got no way of preparing such an amount of meat with just the meager campfires they don’t dare keep up for longer than a couple of hours at a time. It’s understandable, they can’t be leaving a trail of half-butchered carcasses behind unless they want a herd after their asses before long. Unfortunately, it means food is not guaranteed every day, at least not in amounts that would fill everyone’s stomachs.

It’s been two days since Rick last had anything but a bunch of mint leaves in his mouth. The refreshing taste of peppermint on his tongue is quickly becoming but a memory, too, because the mint patch they found wasn’t all that big and they saved some leaves to dry and make tea in case somebody has digestion problems; it’s another aspect of the apocalypse nothing about their lives Before prepared them for, and yet it’s proven to be quite common due to their somewhat, uh, _ eclectic _ dietary habits. 

Anyway, Rick’s slowly forgetting what it feels like to not be hungry; actually, he doesn’t even feel the hunger anymore so much as a funny sucking sensation in his stomach which he supposes might mean his stomach is attempting to digest itself due to lack of better alternatives. At least it doesn’t hurt so bad anymore. At the beginning, he used to have horrible cramps if he went a few days without a good, filling meal. It’s no longer a problem. What is a problem is, the hunger makes him think about foods from before in vivid, photo-realistic detail, complete with illusory smells and memories of taste. And lately, he’s been fantasizing about bread.

Rick didn’t even use to be a big fan of bread before the end of the world. He didn’t even really like sandwiches or burgers. He was more of a steak kind of guy. But now, as he stands watch all alone, with the others in the camp, asleep or pretending to be - all but Daryl, who’s out hunting in the woods - Rick’s thinking about bread and his mouth waters at the memories his brain conjures of all the times he’d had the opportunity to eat bread fresh from the bakery. The crispy crust of an only-just-finished-baking loaf, crunchy between the teeth and slightly salty on the tongue. The dough inside, warm and soft and a little bit sour, with the most amazing texture, like a mix between clay and sponge, and so delicious. Rick imagines eating a thick slice of that bread, with no additives at first, but then the fantasy turns more adventurous. The piece of bread is covered in creamy butter or PB&J, or dipped in honey, or even in some thick vegetable broth, like his grandfather used to eat. Rick tries to remember each specific taste separately, and then how they used to fit together, but it doesn’t seem to work all that well; he only remembers bits and pieces, like the sandwiches he used to take hurried bites of during stakeouts with Shane, the bread-based lunches he threw away in high school, the buttery toast with raspberry jam he used to make for Carl every Saturday when it was Lori’s day off and she was out with her friends. 

And then, inexplicably, Rick’s memories and fantasies of enjoying bread dim and eventually fade away. The visions change, and he imagines Daryl instead. Daryl taking a still-hot loaf of bread out of the oven and into his mitten-clad hands, bringing it up to his face to breathe in the smell and humming in appreciation. Daryl tearing a piece of the warm bread with his big hands, and licking the surface of the crust on the piece before biting into the soft part, closing his eyes as he chews, his whole face slack in pleasure at the taste. Daryl holding out a sizable chunk of bread, offering it to Rick with that shy, almost non-existent smile, like he’s seeking approval, his voice soft as he says Rick’s name-

“Rick?” Daryl says in real life, his voice just as soft as in the vision, and his hand squeezes Rick’s shoulder so suddenly, he almost jumps out of his skin. 

Great. He must’ve been completely buried in what he’s quite sure was the weirdest fantasy of his adult life. While on watch. He’s just glad it’s Daryl that surprised him just now and not a walker, because being eaten while thinking about another man, well, eating? Very Not Cool.

Though he supposes it would’ve been worse if the fantasy wasn’t completely PG.

He’s not sure why it would be anything else. It’s not like he has a habit of envisioning his _ male _best friend in non-PG situations. What a strange thought. Then again, it’s weird that he’s fantasizing about Daryl Dixon in the first place, not only in terms of baking and eating bread, but in any other context whatsoever. And it’s not even the first time. Lately, he’s been imagining the hunter in so many scenarios which would’ve been downright ordinary in the world Before but seem about as realistic as any high fantasy novel right now; Daryl doing things like shopping for groceries, playing baseball with Carl, tinkering with something under the hood of Rick’s old truck. It’s like his mind’s been trying to place the only friendly face in this generally hostile world into the memories Rick has of the life that used to be. Like he’s trying to insert Daryl into his memories in place of Shane the same way he’s already so completely replaced the man himself with the hunter in real life. 

“Y’all should get some shut-eye,” Daryl mutters when Rick acknowledges him with a nod. His voice is barely above a whisper, mindful of the others asleep a few feet away from them. 

“Not tired,” Rick says, and it’s not the absolute truth, but also not a downright lie. He’s getting used to not sleeping, just as he got used to not eating. It’s not sustainable, this way of life, it’s not gonna last, but Rick keeps telling himself it’s not forever. They’re not going to be wandering forever. There’s got to be a place they can make their home. There must be. It’s only a matter of finding it.

“How’s the hunt?” He asks before Daryl can reply. He knows the hunter wouldn’t call him out on the bullshit, but Daryl’s silent judgement seems a thousand times worse. Rick constantly wants to prove to the man that he’s worth the trust Daryl’s placed in him. Maybe this insecurity is a result of Shane’s betrayal, or maybe it’s got nothing to do with Shane at all. Either way, Rick wants Daryl to approve of him just as much as Daryl seems to need Rick’s approval in turn.

Daryl accepts the change of subject, sitting down right there on the ground next to Rick, ignoring the dampness that must immediately be seeping into his jeans from the grass. The way he sits has their sides pressed together. They keep close for warmth most of the time, awake and asleep alike, all of them tend to do it, but Rick can’t help but notice how Daryl tends to stay a healthy distance away from the others in the group. He’s only ever this close with Rick. 

It likely doesn’t mean anything, but Rick feels a strange sense of pride about it, anyway.

“Carol’s gonna have yer boy helpin’ skin the squirrels,” Daryl says in his low, rumbling voice. He’s different nowadays, even from the way he was at the farm. Calmer, but rougher around the edges, too. He talks less, he only ever seems to have full conversations with Rick and sometimes Carol, though he’s been distancing himself from the woman lately as surely as Carol’s been trying to close that distance. Daryl likes to be alone, it seems, even though - he really doesn’t, not based on how he’s always trying to be in the vicinity, always in the periphery of the group even if not within the ranks. It’s as if he’s stuck between two facets of his personality, the lonesome warrior and the guardian who can’t take his eyes off of the people he’s trying to protect. But he’s closed off, hardly ever says how he feels, what he thinks; and it’s true that the road’s made them all tougher, they all had to change to survive, but for Daryl, it’s like he slipped into an old pair of shoes that’s familiar, but uncomfortable.

Rick’s seen his scars and heard enough of his childhood stories to put the pieces together. This kind of life, this kind of world, it’s not much different to him than what he knows from Before. But it sure as hell isn’t as easy on him as he’s trying to make it seem.

“You’re gonna eat today,” Rick tells him. He hates that his tone makes it more of an order than anything else, but it’s necessary because he knows it’s the only way Daryl will actually listen. He thinks of the earlier fantasy of Daryl eating bread, and he wonders if it’s just his subconscious way of worrying about the man. Actually, it makes sense. He hasn’t seen Daryl take his share of the food for even longer than he himself hasn’t eaten. Somehow, it seems that Daryl always finds ways to give up his rations to Lori or Carl without anyone really noticing. 

Rick’s noticed. He just hasn’t said anything about it. 

The hunter hums, but otherwise stays silent, so Rick assumes the matter is closed and his sort-of-command will be obeyed. He lets his head rest against Daryl’s shoulder, hard and muscular under the thick poncho the man procured from a cabin they pilfered a few days ago. At first, Daryl offered the poncho to Lori and Carl, but it was immediately decided he should keep it since he’s the one most likely to need it during his hunts. The others can just pile together in front of a meager campfire to keep warm. Daryl doesn’t have that luxury, so he gets the poncho.

Rick has a fleeting thought about how nice it would be to bunch up under that poncho together with Daryl, pressed against each other for warmth and comfort alike. It’s even more confusing than the bread-eating fantasy, and he shakes his head to dismiss it, like he’s hoping the movement can clear his mind from strange ideas. He can find a rational reason to be thinking about Daryl eating something - God knows he’d like nothing more than feed the hunter, after all - but this is not so easily explained. He supposes he misses basic human touch and the comfort afforded from proximity to another living being. He’s got nobody else he could hope to cuddle with, certainly not Lori who now hates him more than she’d ever loved him, even if she’s never going to say so; with the distance between himself and his as-good-as-ex-wife, he decides it’s no wonder his mind latches onto the idea of closeness with the first person who doesn’t shy away from his hands like he’s no better than a walker.

Daryl sighs, oblivious to Rick’s musings, and he looks off into the treeline. “Gotta find a place soon. For the winter,” he mumbles and shifts so that Rick can fit more snugly against his side. It’s the closest Rick’s ever been to him, save that one time he and Shane all but carried the injured man to Hershel’s house after Andrea accidentally shot him. He can feel the heat radiating off of Daryl’s body. He thinks he can feel the hunter’s heartbeat, the movement of his ribcage as he breathes. It’s calm and measured, peaceful in the dead of night. It grounds Rick, anchors him to the here and now like nothing else ever does anymore.

“Somethin’s gonna come along,” he says, and it’s a promise.

Daryl nods, exhales a puff of warm air into the top of Rick’s head, into his hair. Rick’s certain he can smell the vague, leftover scent of mint, and he smiles. Without further deliberation, he turns his head just slightly, shifts and presses his lips lightly against the corner of Daryl’s.

It’s brief, so chaste, it’s almost not even a kiss at all. Just another way they touch, soft and gentle, so unlike anything else they’ve found in this hard and unforgiving world. Daryl doesn’t move, and Rick pulls away but stays close enough to feel as Daryl breathes in and out, near inaudibly, and he thinks _oh_, and then,_ yes_.

_ This is why. _

“Get some sleep,” Daryl tells him again, and Rick doesn’t argue. He shifts to once more lean against Daryl’s shoulder and the hunter huffs, but he opens his arms to accommodate Rick’s new position. Wrapped in warmth, comfortable and safe, Rick eventually drifts off to Daryl’s gentle hum of a familiar melody he used to hear on the radio a lot. He doesn’t remember the lyrics. They were probably silly anyway.

(He doesn’t think much about bread again, but he continues to daydream about Daryl a lot. When he eventually gets to taste fresh bread again, many months later within the hard-earned safety of their new home, he’s satisfied, but not overly impressed.)

(Daryl’s kisses taste way better.)

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream at me on Tumblr at most--curiously--blue--eyes :D


End file.
